


Fire

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The needle and the damage done.  Set during "The Fix."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Me and Thee 1000's last sentence challenge.

The first time it was like fire licking through his veins. First the cold, metallic prick of the needle, followed by an endless second of blind panic, frantic writhing in his bonds against their gripping hands – and then, the fire. He could feel it spreading, leaping, burning through him from his arm along every pathway in his body, speeding to his brain, settling there as if it belonged. He felt his mouth fall open, go slack with amazement. And then, like an automatic reflex, he vomited.

Very distantly, he heard their curses, felt someone backhand him across the face, and then he was lying sideways on the floor, the chair still bound to him, the blindfold still in place, the thin carpet rough against his cheek. Someone growled, "Shit, one of you get a towel." But none of these things mattered at all. Even the vomiting didn't matter. He lay blinking behind the blindfold, trying to process what he was feeling, because feeling was the only the thing that did matter. He blinked harder, and then forced his eyes open and stared into the darkness that covered them. He saw swirls of color, faint ribbons that teased him with their beauty and disappeared. He tried to raise his hand to touch them, pulling weakly at the cords.

It went away soon, after an indeterminate period of gossamer happiness, and he was left shivering and terrified. His brain churned in helpless circles. Smack, junk, heroin. They'd shot him up with _heroin_. He had to get away, take care of Jeannie, find Starsky. His arm was sore from the belt they'd used to tie him off. His head ached from their blows. His mouth was sour, his veins hungry.

The second time was better. He'd heard, somewhere, that nothing was ever as good as the first hit, but it was a lie. He fought them, of course he did, but it did no good, and he felt something he couldn't accept when they held him down and slid the needle home -- the faintest, creeping satisfaction that they'd won. He collapsed back on the bed and lay still, wrapped in warmth so delicious he could only close his sightless eyes in bliss. Uterine warmth, amniotic bliss.

When it faded that time, he almost sobbed. The bed was hard beneath him, the blanket rough against his skin, the air so cold. They'd taken the blindfold off, and he looked around despairingly at the ugly little bedroom with its cheap furniture and its stained carpet. A cockroach skittered across the floor, and he shuddered with revulsion. He couldn't stand the ugliness. The contrast was too great.

But they came back, they always came back, and then the ugliness went away. It happened again and again, and he got so good at it. He knew now exactly how to ride it, exactly how to disappear into it. He didn't worry anymore about Jeannie, or Starsky. Once Jeannie was there, in his arms, crying against his chest. But she went away, and he closed his eyes and he was alone with it again, with the beauty and the fire.

He heard them talking while he soared. He understood the words, but it was like a TV show, a soundtrack to someone else's life. They were going to string him out and cut him off. He laughed in his head at the phrases, turning them over and over in his mind, rearranging the words, stretching them like clay. He sang them under his breath.

He was happy, so happy. He couldn't understand why he hadn't known about this before, this other world just beneath the real one, this softness, this warmth. He remembered, as if from another life, arresting people for feeling this good. He and Starsky had called them hypes, and he'd felt pity and contempt, and he'd looked into their eyes and he hadn't been able to see the beauty they saw. He'd been half alive.

They were talking again now, in a corner of the room, and it was a pleasant buzz in his ears. Someone came closer and touched his foot, slapping it lightly, almost fondly. "Enjoy it, baby," said a voice. "This one's your last ride. You might not feel this good tomorrow."

He heard laughter, and he smiled. Someone pushed him down against the pillows and said, "Sleep tight, cop, you got a big day tomorrow." They left the room, flicking the light switch as they went.

He wasn't worried about tomorrow. He couldn't worry about anything. He hoped Starsky wasn't worrying about him. He wished he could talk to Starsky, tell him that there was nothing to worry about, tell him how perfectly right everything was.

He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. The darkness embraced him like a lover, and he knew no more.


End file.
